


Calypso's Sea Lioness | Part III

by forhesolovedtheworld (WriteMessyStuff)



Series: Calypso's Sea Lioness [3]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Aging, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Violence, During Canon, F/M, Flying Dutchman, Friendship, Loss of Powers, Love, Making Up, Minor Violence, Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, Suicide Attempt, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 22:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteMessyStuff/pseuds/forhesolovedtheworld
Summary: Buried in undying despair, soul enslaved by the Devil of the ocean, the only thing she has left is her eternity. Only now, that's not a fate she's willing to face. But how does one get free of Davy Jones' chains? Can life ever really be free?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains instances of thoughts and attempts at suicide. Reader discretion is advised.

The room was deeply still. Not a rustle from within, nor even a stir of the window drapes. The breeze was gone.

Steamy clouds had all disappeared long ago. The washtub sat, cold, pristine, and perfect, never touched, white bath linen folded sweetly at its base, unspotted as a lamb. At its side, a crisp Company uniform lay neatly unoccupied on a seat with a velvet cushion.

But she couldn't move.

In nothing but rags, she cowered in the corner, farthest from the light of the open window. Terror-stricken, shaking, and in pieces. The silence whispered noiseless threats. The world had turned against her. And she could not fight back.

Empty heart. Hollow mind. Frozen, trapped inside her terrible fortress, where nothing could hurt her but herself.

She couldn't shake it.

It wouldn't leave.

Every creak made her jump.

Every sound was deafening.

Every voice was laced with whispered agony.

Every breeze smelled of thick, hot blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains thoughts and attempts at suicide. Reader discretion is advised.

Geneva paddled. Far, far and away, until the gallery lights were nothing but a flickering star on the edge of the earth.

Then, she stopped.

It was over. No more running. No more terror. No more knives to necks. She was free. Free as some wild sea bird. That was what freedom was. Being lost in possibility. Or simply being lost. Was it not the same thing? No one there to tell you where to go, or what to do. No one around to help you, and likewise no one to ignore you. Weightless, connectionless, boundless living. Not a person in sight. That was it. It was everything she imagined it would be. Loneliness.

And when one was alone, they were by themselves. All they had was themselves, and everything inside. All the pain, all the dreadful memories. Every last word they had ever heard, every feeling they had ever felt, it was all amplified, magnified, until the whole surrounding world looked just like their insides. The ends of the mind were boundless. Wherever one went, they only found themselves, and they found nothing else. That was the point, wasn't it? That was the goal, all along. She wanted manumission, liberty, deliverance; and now she had it. She was undeniably, inescapably free.

She leaned over the edge of the boat. The water was black and deep. It was endless. Just how far could she venture? How much could her body take? When would she finally die?

"Why did you do this to me?" she whispered into the darkness.

The waves did not reply.

"Why did you bar me from death?"

All of time seemed to slow to a lifeless stop.

"Why did you make me so alone?"

She didn't know which god she was asking. Any god that would listen. Whatever god had made her this way. Whatever god that cursed her to perpetual loneliness. Whatever god allowed her to be immortal and invincible.

"The world hates me. Did you know that?"

The waves lapped quietly against the hull, pushing her aimlessly through the blackness.

"Every new world that is born despises me. Every man on this earth wants to have me only to kill me. And they die trying. It doesn't end. It never will.

"So tell me,

"Why should I give up my life for a world that doesn't care?

"Why should I watch every life go in a cold rush

"And leave me behind?

"Why should I witness that?"

* * *

 

Soundlessly, she was curled up, underneath the seat of the rowboat. Every time she woke up, she couldn't see anything at all. There was no light at all, not even from the stars. She must have slept for days. But the night wouldn't end.

She finally sat up. Out into the darkest waves, her gaze persisted. There was nothing out beyond the night. But she stood up anyway. Written across her eyes was some quiet glow.

She breathed.

"It is said that Christ,

"Son of God,

"Could walk on water.

"Am I not the daughter of Calypso?

"And is Calypso not the sea?

"Then, harken to me now.

"Either I will walk on water, all the way to my olden home by the sea,

"Up the side of the walls which bar the sea from the land,

"To the deserted home of my kin and parents

"Where no one will be left to welcome me;

"Or I will drown.

"Either is an end for me.

"So, to me,

"It does not matter any longer."

And she stepped over the rail.


	3. Chapter 3

_I burst out the door, running._

_Screaming._

_Wrong!_

The main deck.

She was standing, motionless, upon the main deck of the  _Flying Dutchman_. Like a dream.

And she didn't know why.

_I turn around and roar, hands clenched like little boulders._

_You don't know me a lick!_

_You haven't seen all of me!_

_You'll see me!_

_When I'm bigger, you'll see!_

The navigator crossed in front of her. His eyes burned. Her insides went cold. He did not smile. She could not move. His hands came up and gripped her hair. Her head came down on the butt of a cannon.

_You'll see how wrong you were!_

She woke up in darkness. She could not see.

Her head throbbed.

She didn't understand.

Nothing worked.

* * *

 

Her eyes opened. Light was off to the side. She tried to sit up.

"No, no," muttered a voice. A hand kept her right where she was. Her heart jumped. No.

She forced herself up. Her head was reeling. But that didn't matter. She would not stay down.

"Stop!" he snapped, grabbing hold of her. She yanked away, and suddenly, she saw a face, covered in coral, not even human at all.

She couldn't form a thought.

"Calm down now," Palifico said. She was dumbfounded. "It's okay," he said. She didn't get it. But somehow, she was lying down again, and the light was going out. She didn't understand. But she fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When she woke up again, her head hurt still. Everything felt off.

And her head wouldn't heal.

She didn't know why.

She focused on it harder. But nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_Nothing._

Why? Why nothing?

And that was when she realized it.

_Her powers were gone._


	5. Chapter 5

She shoved herself awake. The grogginess. The pain. She pushed past it and opened her eyes.

Her body would not allow her to stand up. She growled and groaned, and then she sprang up, way too fast. She fell. She cursed the world and stood again.

The ship rocked as it normally did, but all too much now. Down the hallway, she stumbled. She thought she could be sick. She didn't like this. But where was Palifico?

Her hands dragged hard across the wall. It was the only thing between her and the floor. Why wouldn't the hallway just end? Where was she going? And why was this world a living hell?

She felt cold and warm, all at once. She almost threw up. But she didn't. Stopped against the wall. Barely standing.

A figure stepped out in front of her. Out from the wall. He stopped in the darkness and stared at her. She had to move. She stood up straight and turned. Or she tried. But he didn't let her turn. She could have yelped. Maybe she whimpered instead. She cried a little. It was all too much.

And when everything finally stood still, hard hands gripping her arms, holding her up, and she stared into the face of a dead man.

Maccus.


	6. Chapter 6

Maccus.

That name stirred her, too much. She remembered everything. Every shivering breath. The blood. The smell. The echoing thud of a corpse.

But now, that corpse stared down at her. It stood there like a ghost, holding her with fear alone, as if he were really there. But her eyes were fools. She was dead. She was completely dust. These were the shadows of hell, the ones she had willingly accepted for eternity. And Maccus…

Maccus was there, too. All the same. His grip harsh, digging into her like iron. Grimace lines around his mouth, imprints left from his scowl. His brow weighted with displeasure. She didn't know what to think, what to say, if she could speak at all. Filled with confusion and terror, she pushed away, falling backward into darkness, where he could not follow.

* * *

 

She collapsed. He panicked.

He caught her, awkwardly, and pulled her up from the floor. He was still shaking.

At first, he hadn't even recognized her. He saw a shadow in the darkness. He didn't know why he grabbed it, but it was like an instinct to him now. He didn't know who he was holding. And then, when her face came into the light, he froze, and she dropped. He almost didn't catch her.

He never caught her right. He pulled her up and slung her over his shoulder, her head and arms hanging lifelessly. How? How else did one handle this? How did one ever handle this properly? How could anyone pick up a human, a woman, like a sack of flour, like a sandbag? Like a warm, heavy, doll of a bag—of something. He didn't even know. He couldn't carry her any other way, it seemed. It confused him. She wasn't flour or sand. She was something he couldn't put his finger on too well. She was warm and alive, filled with such a voice. Warm like he remembered, against his chest, one of the few times she was ever right up next to him like that. He would have ventured to say it was his fault, but it was also hers. How she snarled at him like an animal when he did that. She would thrash and shout at him, awful things, and he'd only clamp down harder on her. But when she finally gave up and just sat there, his arms locked around her—that was something else. Everything was different, just for a second. Like it should have lasted forever, but didn't. Like he wasn't even angry at her. Like he wanted so much to stop, to turn her around and embrace her. To hold her right.

He returned to his cabin with her, and put her on his bed, as gently as he could. And then, all at once, he panicked. He turned, stumbling out into the hall, feeling sick, clenching the wall. There were firesnakes in his belly. But he wouldn't let himself vomit. Gasping, he collapsed to the ground in tears.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She wasn't even supposed to be here. Neither was he. And yet, somehow, in all the chaos, in the midst of what was supposed to happen, there he was, alive and weeping, and there she was, enslaved to this ship once more.

No matter what he did, it seemed everything went wrong for them. Even in selflessness, they were still back where they started, as if nothing had ever changed. She had seen him. He wasn't so lucky to just be another shadow in the darkness, soon to be forgotten once again. No, that was just it. She  _couldn't_  forget. No one could. The world remembered, God remembered, and he remembered. Her eyes stung him with weakness. He would have fallen to his knees, weighed down by guilt, if she hadn't fallen first. She remembered him. She remembered everything he did. And she was afraid.

He roared, tears streaming down his face. He slammed a fist into the wall. The wood trembled in shock. His hand throbbed, and he collapsed into sobs.

"I  _do_  love her!"

How could a beast ever begin to love?

How could a wretched man love someone he destroyed?

He couldn't possibly!

"I  _do_."

A hopeless dream. He was lowly dirt, begging to be a man again. It was too late.

"But I do…"

It was too late.

"No…"

Decades too late.

"No."

She was terrified of him. Why shouldn't she hate him?

"No—!"

Footfalls drummed on the stairs. Maccus bolted up from the floor.

"What?" Palifico spoke down at him from the railing, confused. Maccus looked away. His brow furrowed. His heart was swarming now.

His only reply came out in a painful breath. It was all he could manage.

"Why is she here?"

The rigger's shoulders lowered. His gaze fell. Maccus turned away. Tears stung his eyes. He couldn't speak. It hurt too badly.

* * *

 

By the time she opened her eyes, she knew she was not alone. Palifico was above her. She forced herself up. It was difficult. The air felt heavy. She couldn't remember why. But Palifico would know, would he not? And, as her mouth opened in question, her eyes fell on the man in the doorway.

Her whole body froze up in strange contortion. She pushed stiffly backward, away from the door and into the farthest corner of the bed, nearly sinking into the wall, but nothing seemed far enough. Across her eyes, all at once, everything ran in crazed circles, endless fiery loops, blackened smog from the searing flesh of her arms, shrieking, crying, screaming souls, and she was halfway through the wall. Palifico tried to calm her. It was like she didn't even hear him. Terror was flashed across her eyes, and the whole world seemed wrong, flipped upside-down, and Maccus grabbed the rigger by the arm and yanked him out of the room.

Palifico struggled. "We can't leave her like that!"

"Well, she ain't even supposed to be here!"

"What the hell?!" Palifico turned, disgusted and simmering. "She  _is_  here, and she's gotta—!"

"She's gotta get  _out_ ," Maccus hissed through his teeth, tense and low. "Do you realize how many eyes are on us? Right now?" Palifico's face slowly softened. The coral retracted, until he was hard as stone once again.

His voice whispered. "Then what?" he asked. "How are we going to do that now?"

"Do what?" She stood in the doorway, staring at both of them. "Throw me overboard?"

They both hesitated. She had heard everything. And she was giving them no slack.

"What is this?" she demanded. Her voice was different. Like it was difficult for her to talk, like her accent was so thick at times that she couldn't speak through it. And yet, it came out so naturally, the Irish bite that he remembered. But that was when she was angry.

Maccus said the only thing on his tongue. "You're not supposed to be here." That earned him a glare.

"You're one to talk."

Good God.

"I'm trying to do what's best for  _you_  here."

She was appalled. "Like you would know what's best for me!"

"I would!" he snapped. "An' you don't belong here!"

"I can't leave, Maccus!" she shrieked. "Nobody can make me! I can't make me, as much as I'd love to!"

He wasn't listening. "Yes, we can. We have to."

"I don't  _want_  to!"

Maccus stopped.

"What?" he said. He didn't understand. Her expression didn't change. She only seemed more upset, more adamant.

"Why are you doing this?" Her eyes were filled with a caged anger. He couldn't even answer. "I can't leave, and you know it! I'm not leaving this ship ever again, and even if I could, there'd be nothing left for me anyway.

"But what ticks me off," she continued, her voice rising. "Is you. You think it's somehow your duty to save me. You actually have the audacity to believe  _you_  know what's best for me!  _You're_  the one who abandoned me at every turn! Every chance you had, you ran off with your tail between your legs, and you left me there to fend for myself.  _I_  had to figure out what was best for me because nobody else had the balls to stand up for me!"

Her voice went soft, just for a moment. "And I really thought you cared." Like she was hurt. "I honestly believed that if anybody cared, if anybody heard me, it would be you."

He wanted so desperately to speak. To tell her. "I  _do!"_  he wanted to say. But nothing came out, and her rage only heightened.

"But  _you_  decided it was best to give yourself up to that abomination you call captain! You died, and I was forced into Company hands!"

"You wanted that, did you not?!" Maccus snapped suddenly. She was appalled.

"You know very well I couldn't stay there forever!" she shrieked. "I incurred a debt, remember?! Eternity! Eternity before the mast in this Godforsaken Hell-hole!

"Do you know what I had left on that boat?" she growled. "Do you know what I had left on that Company ship, waiting to be hanged?! Nothing! I had no hope! I had no dreams! I had nothing left to keep me afloat! I drowned myself, and I ended up here: without power, without hope, without immortality, and a big bump on my head, and you expect me to be happy with  _you_  making my decisions?!"

Maccus couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel anything but cold, nothing but a sudden, tearing void in his chest cracking open farther and farther. The more he looked at her, the more it shattered and frayed, until he felt the whole ocean tumbling down on him, stinging him all over, crushing him into dust. And she watched it happen. She wanted it to happen.

"Get out of my way." She shoved past him and out of his sight. He couldn't even turn.

"Where are you going?" Palifico stammered after her. She didn't wait on him.

"Well, I only have a few years left to live most likely," she snarled as she started up the stairs. "I might as well waste it."


	7. Chapter 7

She surfaced on the deck, right into foggy morning, and she halted abruptly. The ship was overrun with yelling men, uniformed and stout, keeping post with their bayonets pointed high into the air. Milling in and out between them were the ants, the vermin, the sniveling curds of Jones' handiwork, bumbling and slathering their stench all across their orders. The ship was running and alive.

She went up farther to the catwalks, in disbelief, to the railing. Across the water, only a ship's length away, was a majestic beauty. Written across its hull at the stern were the bright, proud letters:  _H.M.S. Endeavor_. At her portside was another warship, and behind her, another; all around, there were ships, as far out as eyes could see through the fog.

"An armada," she breathed, chills going up her arms. She looked about, and Palifico had disappeared into the mess. She held her tongue. Now was not the time to wear uncertainty upon her brow. Now was not the time to stand out. She had to hide.

She blended in with the crew, and she let herself be swept up by the swarm of laborers, all the way to the bow. Just out from the bowsprit, amidst the fog, a dark mountain loomed. She stepped out of the surging crew. Pirate ships lined the foot of the mountain, bows pointed at them. There were only thirty-some.

A sudden retort sounded from behind her.

"Ha!" he laughed scornfully. "Back from the dead." He drew his sword, and she whirled around. A blade was pointed at her face, Koleniko on the opposite end. His smile leered. His voice was dark and curdling. She realized she had no swords, and she froze, jaw clenched.

But his eyes flitted off, up to the stern. Shouts were coming across the ship. His crooked teeth bared in a pensive grin.

"I'll see you in hell," he snarled, his twisted smile curling even higher. A mad light blazed in his eye. And he disappeared into the bodies of men.

She shivered and spat, rather poorly, at where he once stood, and then she bolted. Down into the gundeck, right to her old room, and then all the storage rooms. Swords. She needed her swords. Anyone's swords. But there was nothing. It was all barren. She had nothing.

"On deck with you!" a man barked at her, pulling her from storage and up the stairs again. Quartermaster. He shoved her out into the open, into pouring rain. She looked into the heavens. Blackened, churning clouds, flashing lightning. Fear gripped her. She climbed up the stairs, to the catwalks, up to the rail, shaking, and a roar emanated from the sea itself, through the deafening, ear-splitting rain. The sea was raging; the jaws of Calypso were wide, frothing, and deadly.

"Full pow'r an' into the abyss!" Jones roared from the helm above. The crew swelled toward the rigging, letting all the sails. Geneva flew the opposite way across the catwalks, shoving her way through men, trying to get to the store-room under the quarterdeck. Swords would be there.

She burst in the door. It startled a man inside. Angered, he shoved her out as he left. She jumped back in. She dug through the barrels, knocked over crates. Nothing here. No swords. No axes. No harpoons. She had nothing but a rotting plank and a mop and pail. She hesitated. Couldn't she just hide? Wait it out? She grabbed the mop.

She hissed as the water pelted her again upon exit. She couldn't fight with this. The men were readying the cannons. She was wielding a mopstick. A splintering mopstick.

Right in front of her, the navigator appeared at the foot of the stairs. Sword drawn. This was it.

She brandished the pole and fled, down to the main deck. She swung with the mop end at the bottom of the stairs. It fazed him, and she ran again. He swiped at her and missed. She whacked him again with the cloth end, harder. She wanted to get away. She only wanted to hide. The blow about knocked him over. But he recovered too fast. She swung to block. He came down on the wood, right at the end. The mop split off, dangling haphazardly by shreds. She went cold. She rammed it against a pillar, trying to back up, trying to shed the mop's weight. It fell off. He raised his sword, too fast. She had no time.

Cannons fired off, right by them. Holes blasted through the wood, and Geneva dropped to the ground. Shards and dust flew everywhere. Another ball burst through the wood, feet from her head. She covered her ears. Cannonfire sounded again. She opened her eyes and felt for the mopstick. She grasped it clumsily and scrambled to her feet. She couldn't hear anything. She could barely see. The rain was cold. She ran. Koleniko had disappeared in the noise. She needed to hide. As fast as her legs would go, she was flying across the deck.

From behind, she was knocked over. Lightning screeched. She cowered as cannons thundered overhead. She couldn't think. She was nearly crying. She had to hide. She pushed up from the floor. Stumbled up to the catwalks. Another cannonball flew past, right overhead. She fell again. It hit the rail, and the wood shattered. Splinters flew everywhere. Shaking, she grabbed the rigging and stood up. Just ahead of her, there was an ax, wedged into a pillar. Her eyes widened.

She dropped the mopstick and ran across the open deck. She grabbed the ax handle and yanked it from the post. She turned. The stairs. She bolted back across the open deck. She glanced up. Enemy cannons fired. No time. She changed course. She sent herself flying the other way. She slammed into the captain's cabin door. The blows shattered the railing. She cried.

Suddenly, the cabin door began to creak open. She jolted. He appeared for a moment, saw her, and pulled the door shut once more. She yanked it open, charging in, and she slammed into him.

"Easy, love!" he stammered, hands in the air. "Easy." He was holding Jones' chest. "I'm here to set you free."

"Jack?" she stammered. She was in disbelief. His eyes were just as frightened as hers. She looked back and forth at him, and then at the chest. Was he going to kill Jones?

"I can't say that I'm not happy to see you," she said breathlessly. She couldn't breathe. The cabin seemed to push down on her. Her eyes darted around.

"Is it safe out there?" he asked. Her gaze landed on two Company soldiers, back by the organ, armed with miniature cannons and shocked expressions.

"No," she moaned, her jaw quivering. Her voice was shaking. Jack turned and looked back at her. She was milling through the cabin, wildly, muttering as though she were mad, searching aimlessly. He hesitated.

"Darling?"

She didn't hear him, or if she did, she didn't listen. But something was wrong. Everything was wrong. He almost didn't recognize her.

"Geneva," he called again, and she turned. Her eyes were filled with terror, tears rolling down her face, breathing out of control. Her hair was brown and dark, plastered against her forehead from the rain.

Cannons roared from outside. She shivered at the sound, her eyes still locked on him. He looked down, unable to speak. Then, just like that, he disappeared out the door.

"Miss!" one of the soldiers called. Geneva jumped and whirled.

"What are you looking for, miss?" he asked. The other was attempting to pick up his small cannon and failing miserably. The first stared at her expectantly. She didn't understand.

"Do you need weapon?" he asked, and he looked all around him. "Oh, there's  _got_  to be a pistol or something around here." He began digging through Jones' cabin. He turned to his friend. "Mullroy, have you got a spare pistol?!"

"No, I haven't!" Mullroy snapped in return. "I've got this stupid thing!" He lifted up the cannon as best he could.

The first soldier huffed. "Oh,  _forget_  that thing!" He ran across the room and grabbed a musket, presumably his. "Here! Take this!" he said to her, shoving it in her hands. She could only stare at him. What were they doing? Why were they giving her a weapon?!

But before she could ask, they too had left. She just stood there. She looked down at the musket. She couldn't use this. Not in hand-to-hand combat. But she could use the bayonet.

She pulled the bayonet off and grabbed the ax too, and then she stopped herself. She couldn't go out there. She would die if she went out there. She felt the tears coming again.

Since when had she shied away from a battle? She remembered loving the cannonfire, the invigorating roar between ships. She used to excel in war. She loved war. And now, she was cowering, hiding from the outside, hiding from it all. Why was she so weak?

No.

No, she wasn't weak. She had never been weak, and she certainly wouldn't be now. She would show them. She would show the world. Even if it killed her, she'd show him a fight.

_He would see her now._

She ran out the door, ax brandished. Right as she came out, a sideways blow threw her across the deck. She rolled across the floor, nearly falling down the stairs. She scrambled up, and the navigator came down hard. She barely dodged. She swiped at him with the bayonet. He parried and made for her legs. She blocked and swung with the ax in her other hand. She missed. But then, he pulled back. She charged. He fled to the catwalks, and she ran in pursuit, ax drawn.

Suddenly, something hit her. She was flying, over the edge and down, and she hit the ground. She opened her eyes. Figures jumped overtop her, shouting, buzzing all around. She tried to move. Her leg throbbed, and she winced. Pushed herself up from the floor, and her dazed eyes looked up, to the catwalks. Men were swinging in far above her, boarding the ship on lines and grappling hooks. She had fallen.

A yell sounded from behind her. Men were pouring down the stairs, enemy men. She jumped up, wincing at her ankle. She pushed on, grabbing her ax and bayonet, and she limped to the starboard stairs. She was slow now. She pulled herself up the stairs, and to the catwalks again. Her ears were ringing. Swords clanged right next to her. She shoved past a duel. Missed the swing of a blade by inches. Another slew of men came barreling across the abyss, about to hit her. She dove to the floor, just sliding out of the catwalk,. They trampled where she once stood. But when she began to push herself up from the floor, someone grabbed her and kicked her in the face.

She cried out. Koleniko grabbed her by the wrists. She had already dropped her weapons. She couldn't swing. Everything was flying. She kicked, and her knee hit him, but not hard enough. He gasped and let go for a second, stumbling back. She tackled him, going for his face. She socked him. The spikes on his face broke her skin, and watery blood stained her knuckles. He punched her in the jaw. She hit again. He got her nose, then her jaw. He overpowered her, rolling on top of her, crushing her. She couldn't breathe. He whaled on her. She couldn't move. He began choking her. She flailed, grappling blindly. Everything was flashing white.

Suddenly, his hands were gone, and she was choking. Her neck was searing. She wheezed, trying to get up, trying to get away, and when she could finally see, Koleniko was halfway across the deck in a chokehold.

She couldn't tear her eyes away. Maccus whaled on him, again, again, and again, blow after blow. The navigator was screaming. Maccus slammed his head into the rail, and his body fell and hit the deck. He was yanked back up and slammed against the rail again, and again, until he made no more noise.

The ship jolted hard. Geneva's hands grabbed the rigging ties, bracing her against the rail. She looked upward, into the heavens, and the main masts had crashed into one another. The  _Dutchman_  was waning badly to portside. The ocean seemed to be climbing up the bow.

Then everything began to shift. Kegs began rolling down the ship, toward the bow. The quarterdeck was rising in the air. She wrapped an arm around the rigging ties. The floor was slipping out from under her. The walls of water were rising up on all sides. Darkness was overtaking the ship, all across her eyes.

But then, it vanished. Suddenly, she could see. Water was rushing over the bow, thundering up the deck toward her.  _She could feel._  Calypso's jaws, frothing and wide, opened up for her, crashing toward her, harsh and bright.  _The captain was dead._  The sea rose above her head, above the quarterdeck, overtop the whole ship, as she plummeted downward into the depths, cold, bright, and free.

Free at last.


	8. Chapter 8

The ship burst into the air. Geneva's body hit the deck hard, and she groaned at the blow. It took a few moments before she could stand. There was light everywhere, and as she stood, she could see the water draining away from the deck. But something was different. Something was new and whole. She looked up.

Standing there at the helm, scar in his breast, was the young William Turner. Her eyes widened. All terror washed away.

"Ready on the guns!" he commanded. Suddenly, her feet were moving. Despite her limp, she was running to the gundeck, past all the others. They were right behind her to the starboard guns, and the  _Dutchman_  swept up to broadside. As the cannons were readied, the enemy appeared outside the gun doors, and Geneva realized it was the same beautiful ship from before: the  _H.M.S. Endeavor_. Her cannons were manned and ready, pointed directly in opposition to the  _Dutchman_. Then came Will's order to fire.

The cannons blasted simultaneously. Smoke shrouded Geneva's view of the ship. But no cannonballs came bursting through the hull. The  _Dutchman_ 's cannons were reloaded, again and again, and fired, shot after shot. She fell back from the guns. The sound was hitting her, but she didn't understand. The  _Endeavor_  was not returning fire.

When the shooting finally ceased, and Geneva leaned out the gun door, all that remained was a splintered, shattered wreck sinking beneath the surface. As if she had never existed.

Parallel and some yards off from the  _Dutchman_  sailed the  _Black Pearl_ , her black canvas in full bloom, and her crew could be heard from across the waves, cheering and hollering at their victory. Geneva rushed up the stairs.

The bright afternoon sun was blinding. The crew was ecstatic. The armada was retreating into the distance. Geneva looked to the ground. Corpses of Company soldiers littered the deck yet. In the wake of his death, Jones' great enemy had fallen with him.

Geneva turned away from the noise. Her eyes drew up to the helm once more.

Quietly, Will stood at the rail, keeping to himself. With a thoughtful gaze, he watched the sailing  _Pearl_  in patient wait. Geneva climbed the stairs to his deck. He did not notice.

"Sir." Will turned around, somewhat startled. Relief washed over her. Her voice flowed easily. " _Captain_  Turner, now, huh? That's a pretty high name."

He looked down with a soft smile. "Geneva," he replied. His gaze turned up to her again, a sad look in his eyes. "I see you're still here."

"I am," she answered quietly. "For eternity. I'll still be here when you're long gone."

Will shook his head and looked back at the  _Pearl_. "I can only hope as much." Geneva followed his gaze, and a smile appeared on her face.

"She knows what she has. And she won't let go."

Before Will had a chance to reply, his father came up the stairs. Geneva took her leave and climbed to the poop deck, which was higher yet, and all the way at the stern. The wind was only beginning to billow there. But it was quiet. Part of her eyed the sail yards, but that required more effort than she was willing to take on for the time being. She sat herself down by the railing, and looked out into the ocean. In the west, the sun was creeping toward the horizon, with still a ways to go. Then, in the east, about a mile off, a cliffed coast rose up from the ocean. As she looked down, the  _Pearl_  began lowering a rowboat into the waves. A single passenger was aboard, one with long blonde hair which glimmered in the sun, just enough so that the young captain fell in love once more.

Will disappeared from the ship for a time. During the wait, Geneva didn't bother to leave the poop deck. She felt no urge to, nor any desire to. She simply observed everything from there. The ship had changed. The wood was no longer green with algae. The men had shed their monstrous exteriors, too. Now, they were nothing but skeletons of their former selves, the innard bones of their treacheries. Once everything was stripped away, all that was left were men.

The sun was getting low. At last, Will returned, and the ship began to sail toward the horizon. Then, all at once, everything was overwhelmed by a bright flash, and just like that, it was morning.

Geneva came down the stairs at once.

"What is this?" she demanded at the helm. Greenbeard turned and looked at her, and his beard was not quite as green as she remembered.

"Tis' the other realm," the man replied faintly. "Wherein reside the souls of those who perish at sea 'til they be delivered through the veil."

That made no sense. "The veil?" she stammered confusedly. "But why is it now sunrise? There's no  _sunrise_  in the west!"

"Cardinal directions are reversed upon entering this realm," Bootstrap answered from behind her. "Or, if you wish, everything's the same, and we merely flipped the bow from east-facing to west." He nodded at the sun. "So that's east."

Her expression curled with uncertainty. She was about to open her mouth again, but Greenbeard interrupted her, clearly annoyed.

"You'll get used to it," he grumbled, and before she could reply, Will was atop the quarterdeck.

"Who here calls himself quartermaster?" he called out over the crew. A lanky man stepped out of the crowd. He had always simply been referred to by his title: Quartermaster.

"Produce a record, if you can, of all crewmembers and their positions," the captain ordered. "I want to go through it."

An old copy of the crew's logs was retrieved, and one by one, the captain began going down the list with Quartermaster, while the crew sat at ease down below, conversing and resting. After each man's name had been checked and added, Will dispersed the crew for their chores. Geneva was about to leave the quarterdeck to join the others, but Will stopped her.

"May I see you for a minute?" he asked her, and she followed him into Jones' old cabin, which was now quite different.

The walls were clean and the floor was dry. The organ on the gallery wall was quiet and simple, almost smaller than she remembered, and the desk of papers and maps was no longer soggy and dripping. It looked and felt like a normal cabin.

"I took the liberty of adding your name to the records here," Will said, tossing the papers on the desk chair rather frustratedly. "As well as the names of a few others. I can only imagine they stopped keeping track after about a hundred or so."

Geneva said nothing. Her mind was everywhere. The pain in her leg was killing her just to stand there. Her neck was still raw. She felt a chill enter the room, and it suddenly felt so dark. So constricted. Banging echoed in her ears. It was her own heartbeat. It was too loud.

"What was your position aboard this ship prior to my captainship?" His voice came so quickly. The darkness split, between the banging cannons, between the hands around her neck, and Geneva's gaze snapped up.

She stuttered. "I didn't. I didn't have one." She couldn't breathe.

"You didn't have a position?"

The air wouldn't come. "No." She was gasping. "No. Nothing more than a swabbie." Her vision was flashing with blackness. She couldn't blink it away. She tried to speak. The floor swayed so fast, it flew right over her head. She didn't feel the hit. She could only hear Will's voice through the cannonfire.

"Breathe," he said to her. He was panicked. "Hey!" he shouted, away from her. "I need help!" She only felt cold. Then, it was quiet, and she slept.


	9. Chapter 9

"You get them, too?"

It felt like a question she would answer, if she could ever find her voice. Something in her answered. It battered against her ribs, like a maniac. It made her gasp for air. But Palifico's voice was patient with her.

"It's alright,  _angeli_."

_It's alright, little angel._

"Don't think about it too much. We all have those demons in us."

_Come. Come help me pick them up. Let us make this all better, you and I both._

"Rest, and let them all fall away."

_Look at them! See how pretty they are?_

_They're heavy to pick up alone. Can you come help me? We'll put some in the kitchen for your mamai. How does that sound? Anywhere you'd like; we can put them all over. That's what we'll do. We'll put them everywhere!_

_See? The tulips aren't ruined, Nevie._

_They're still just as pretty._

* * *

 

Sometimes she could not tell that she was dreaming. But it happened over and over.

When she went running through the yard, tearing after her brothers, braids flinging, mud up to her knees, throwing rocks and picking fights, he came out and took her away. She wanted to join, she wanted to run alongside them, down to the market, across the fields, through the trees, over the creeks. But he always stopped her. Always scolded. And then, when he had almost been her  _dadai_ , he was reduced to less than  _athair_ , in a mere instant. Over and over, it rang in her ears.

_No, you won't. That's the last of it now._

Over and over, she screamed.

_I ain't a little baby! I'm a grown girl, an' I can take care of me self like they can! You let them, now why can't I?!_

And each time he retorted:

_I said, that's the last of it, young lady! You aren't to be ploddin' about like a boy, not to be actin' like one, not to be pickin' up habits like one!_

She stormed out the front door.

Again and again.

Until she didn't look back.


	10. Chapter 10

When she woke up, it was mid-morning. No one had bothered her. She woke up alone.

She stood from the little bed. Everything was gray. She exited the room and trudged to the stairs. The captain had been speaking to her. She had to return to him.

She climbed up the stairs to the main deck. Past all the men at work, and up to the quarterdeck, until she rapped on the cabin door.

Will opened the door for her. He looked somewhat surprised.

"Come in," he beckoned nonetheless. "Good morning to you."

"Good morning," she mumbled, stepping into his cabin again. She turned to face him. She didn't want to waste any more of his time. She had already wasted enough the day before.

"I want to apologize for yesterday," she began softly. Will's eyes went a bit wide, as if he hadn't expected her to say such a thing.

"No," he replied quietly. "There's no need for that." Geneva looked down.

"You do understand you've just been through a war, don't you?" he asked softly. She nodded wordlessly. "Possibly the worst part of a war. It's completely understandable for you to be in shock."

She didn't believe she was in shock. Nothing felt shocking. It simply felt empty. But the more he spoke, the calmer she felt about it.

"Don't feel embarrassed about that. It happens quite normally. For some, even when the battles have ended, things continue to rage on, inside."

She looked up slowly. Her eyes were tired. But Will was so quiet with her. It was nearly comforting, if that was even possible anymore.

He continued. "I'd like to pick up where I left off yesterday. I intend to give you a position aboard this ship."

The words sank in slowly. "A position?" she repeated.

"Yes," he replied. "One under the bosun, Jimmy Legs. That would make you third mate." She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Never had she imagined receiving an official place aboard the  _Dutchman_. She should have been happy.

"Thank you, sir."

"I think you will learn a lot from him." Will's voice sounded hopeful, almost knowing.

"I'll do my best to, sir."


	11. Chapter 11

The bosun was an older man, probably nearing his sixties or already there. He had a long face and high cheekbones, with dissatisfied eyes and a large, pompous nose. His lips hung low to his jaw and were thin and slouched, as if nothing ever impressed him except for himself.

"You call that a finished knot?" Jimmy Legs snarled. Geneva glanced back at the rigging ties.

"It serves it purpose fully," she answered blatantly. He scoffed.

"It serves its purpose fully indeed," he retorted. "If all things served their purpose, perhaps even you'd recognize an insufficient knot when ya saw it." Geneva stared at him.

"What kinda knot is it?!" he snapped.

She narrowed her eyes. "It's a mooring hitch."

"An' what are moorin' hitches for?"

She sighed, tensing up. "They're for the mooring line, but they work just fine for—"

"If they're for  _moorin'_  lines, then they aren't acceptable knots for anything that isn't a  _moorin'_  line!"

She bit her tongue, shoved out an "aye, sir," and changed the knot. Everything she thought she knew about lines was apparently wrong. Apparently, unconventional tactics were heresy. Thankfully, she was used to being yelled at.

"Do you want this ship to fall apart?" Jimmy Legs snarled at her. She paused.

"I'm afraid that's a poorly worded question, sir."

He growled. "Do you  _want_  to die?" She had no choice but to answer with what he wanted to hear.

"No, sir."

"Then you'd better have a check of every line on this ship to me, every morning, and if I find one line out of place, you're the one I'm comin' after about it!"

"Aye, sir."

"Check 'em all again."

She went down both sides of the ship for the third time that morning. She knew very well what the bosun was doing. He changed a knot or two each time, just slightly, to see if she could catch it. It frustrated her to her wit's end, but she didn't speak a word. She just took it as it came.

The thin, lanky rigger Hadras, whose accent was riddled with Japanese tongue. His beard was patchy, and his eyes would always shift as if he were suspicious of the rest of the crew. Geneva couldn't blame him for it.

But his knot was wrong. She sighed. She didn't know if Jimmy Legs had told him to tie it wrong or not. All she knew was that it was wrong, and it wasn't such a terrible thing that it was. When she had first learned to tie rigging, there were a couple of knots that were similar and thus interchangeable. But not according to Jimmy Legs. If each chicken didn't have its own eggs, he'd throw a fit.

The bosun's voice growled from behind her. "Is that correct?" He had seen Hadras' mistake as well. Geneva started toward the rigging to fix it.

"No," Jimmy Legs snapped. "Don't you clean up after him. Make him redo it."

She turned around and looked at the bosun. His expression almost looked patient.

"Well?" he said. "Yell at him."

She hesitated. Yell at Hadras? This was not that big of a deal.

"Don't be a wimp," the bosun warned, his eyes glaring, and his frown deepening. But when she hesitated too long, he shrugged his shoulders.

"Fine, then," he said. "Fix it yourself. Clean up after the imp."

Geneva narrowed her eyes. She wasn't weak.

Jimmy Legs saw the look in her eye. "It's too late now," he warned. "You waited too long."

She crossed the deck anyway, much to the bosun's displeasure. She caught Hadras by the shoulder.

"That starboard line you just tied," she said. Hadras looked at her funny.

"Yeah," he snapped. He wasn't about to listen to her. Her eyes widened. Never mind about asking nicely.

"It's wrong," she said flatly, an authority in her voice that she barely recognized. "Come fix it." Hadras' eyes changed. He hadn't expected that much from her, and right away, he crossed the deck with her, and she oversaw his redoing of the knot. When it was all said and done, Geneva turned and looked back at the bosun expectantly.

Jimmy Legs only stood there with one eyebrow raised in disdain. Finally he scoffed.

"Well, I bet you're proud as a peacock now, aren't ya'?" he muttered, crossing the deck for himself. She followed behind him quietly.

"I'm no such thing, sir," she answered.

* * *

 

Rigging and knotting in the morning, and navigation in the evening, when the stars could be seen. After that, Geneva was on her own.

Sometimes, especially as of late, she found herself heading down to the orlop along with the crew. Though she really had nothing to say, there was some enjoyment to be had from listening to others speak.

"Oh, never mind the small things," the Quartermaster would say after about his third drink. "Those skirts hide up all the big goods. Why, the only 'uns with a lick o' sense are the 'uns who invite ya for comp'ny!"

"Spillin' out the front!" another would gaggle, and his voice went high pitched in mockery. "C'mon darlin', are yer sea legs tired?" And that would make Jimmy Legs snarl.

"Oh, shut it," he'd snap. "None o' you have a bit o' taste." But they'd not listen to him and laugh and tease until he got so royally mad that they changed the subject. By then, Geneva would have slipped out of the lit room and into dark solitude.

The nights aboard the  _Dutchman_  were now almost always clear. Instead of sleeping like she should have, the third mate ventured back up to the main deck, to some secluded corner where no one would bother her, and she'd study the stars.

She knew precious little about navigation. She never needed it before. It seemed that as the sea lioness, a hunch was all it took to be correct. She could guess where she was, and where anyone else was in a matter of seconds. But now, she had none of that. Now, the sea was a huge mystery again, endless and boundless, and she was right in the middle of it.

Sometimes she fell asleep on the deck and woke up to the sound of men returning to work in the morning. And so, she'd run the day all over again, exactly as Jimmy Legs prescribed. Over and over again until it became just as dull as everything else.


	12. Chapter 12

Now, she was stumbling a little.

The orlop lights were becoming blinding. Her head hurt. She looked down at the rum bottle. The ship had run out of fresh water a while ago, and the only thing left was rum. She had to drink something. She didn't like it. It seemed like a poor trade. Intoxication for hydration.

She pushed the bottle away and stood. Men seemed to bob across the room, as if they were sitting on little boats. She made her way out of the orlop. Not an easy task. One foot in front of the other, until she couldn't see a thing.

She nearly fell on the stairs. She caught herself and sat there for a moment. She wanted to cry. But then, she'd feel like a child, and that was hardly what she wanted.

She crawled the rest of the way up the stairs, and then she stood again. The stars were nice and bright. Pretty and lonely. Somehow, she was at her corner, or maybe she made a new corner for herself, and she sat there. Weeping soundlessly.

How long was eternity?

Truly, honestly, in terms she could comprehend, how long did it take? Was it different for each person? Did it have the capacity to end?  _She wished it would. She was too afraid to think anything else._

Boots.

"You're a bloody mess."

She leaned back her head with a painful snarl. "What choice do I have?"

"You got plenty o' choices."

"Not really."

"Coulda' asked me."

"Why in hell would I ask you?"

No answer.

"Why can't I feel?"

"C'mon."

"Fuck off."

"I ain't gonna let you sleep out here drunk. Bad enough you do it sober."

"I don't hurt anybody." Her arms went over his shoulders. She was falling asleep against the will of the world. He was warm.

"That's what you think."


	13. Chapter 13

“Wake up.”

She jolted awake at the sound, gasping for air. She was paralyzed for a moment. Maccus was standing above her. He stood miles tall. Dark skinned from the sun, a wiry, black beard, and long black hair that he kept in a ponytail. She had seen him from so many angles, but not this one.

“Get up,” he said again. She started to sit up, and felt sick. She threw up, only a little, and held the rest back. It was painful.

He knelt in front of her. “Don’t let it out,” he said. “It’ll make you more sick.”

She made a face. That wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to hear.

“Get up now,” he said. He motioned for her to come, but she groaned and laid back down. She didn’t feel well at all.

“C’mon. Jimmy Legs don’t care if you’re sick.”

“I don’t _care_ what he thinks,” she mumbled.

“Well, neither do I, but that don’t matter, now do it?”

She argued. Getting up was the last thing she wanted. She defended her case valiantly enough, but she didn’t have the strength to continue for very long. Soon, even talking was too much. So, finally, against her will, she let herself be defeated.

Maccus pulled her gently to her feet, wrapped an arm around her for support, and walked her out of her room. She despised every step, but his being there made it a little more tolerable.

They made it up the stairs, and Maccus sat her down on a crate. He left for a moment, and then came back with a fish, hardtack, and steaming brown liquid in a wooden cup. She took the cup first.

“What is this?”

“Coffee.”

“How is this coffee?” She could remember her _athair’s_ coffee, black as the earth. This was the color of clay.

Maccus sighed. “We don’t have coffee trees for masts, now do we?”

She grumbled and sipped it anyway. It was terribly watery.

Maccus handed her half of the fish and the hardtack. The fish was warm.

“What did you do to this?” she asked incredulously.

He glanced back at her. “Cooked it,” he answered flatly. She gave him a look.

“If I recall,” he continued. “Ain’t you the one who didn’t like her fish raw?”

“You used to eat worms outta your skin.”

He took a generous bite out of his fish, speaking with his mouth full, a grin on his face. “I s’pose people change then.”

* * *

  
  
After breakfast, Maccus made his way up the steps to the quarterdeck. Will was leaning against the rail overlooking the ship. Maccus nodded to him and went to stand at his side. The stern of the _Dutchman_ cut through the early morning fog, and the stars became dust at her watery heels.

“Interesting morning?” the captain inquired.

Maccus cleared his throat. “I s’pose so, sir.”

It was quiet for a while. The fog blew past them, as if the ship were floating through the sky. The captain lowered his voice to a serious tone.

“How bad was she last night?”

Maccus glanced over hesitantly.

“Geneva?”

It was clear Will meant her. Maccus looked down. “Not good,” he said.

The captain let out a deep sigh. His eyes locked on the deck. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed.” Maccus looked out over the deck. There she was, scuttling to rigging tie after rigging tie, the bosun close behind, barking at her every move.

“I was really beginning to think she could…” Will trailed off, and his quiet frustration grew. “Well, that she could be more than just an errand boy.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Maccus asked.

Will was silent for a moment.

“Do you think she has what it takes to be a ship master?” the captain asked.

Maccus hesitated. “What sort of master are you thinking of?”

Will shrugged. “Master gunner, sailmaster, quartermaster, anything really.”

“I dunno, sir,” Maccus answered, a bit sheepishly. “She’s better at her job when she don’t listen to what anyone says.”

The captain glanced over, a smile on his face. “Did she listen to you?”

“Hell no.” Maccus straightened up. “S’cuse my cursin’, sir.”

Will paid him no mind. He stood quiet for a moment, observing the third mate.

“So, you don’t think she’d be good in any of those positions I listed?” Will asked.

Maccus shook his head. “No, sir,” he answered. “Me thinks she’d do best earning a position. She hates things to be handed to her like that. She’s gotta fight for ‘em tooth an’ nail.”

“She wouldn’t appreciate a higher position, even as quartermaster?”

“Not if she didn’t earn it herself. She’s got her own pride, sir, an’ nobody steps on it.”

Will stood there, a thoughtful look in his eye. “I see,” he said, and he turned to Maccus. “Thank you.” And he said no more.

* * *

  
  
It didn’t sit right.

Something felt too good. It had always made her suspicious, or scared: one of the two. It made her lunch hard to swallow, her stomach upset, her heart race, and her mind run in circles.

Why was Maccus so kind?

Why did it bother her?

They were stupid questions. She knew why he was so kind. Or at least she thought she did. He might have started to have an interest in her. Or he absolutely wanted to see her crumble. Maybe both.

It made her happy that he left her alone for a long time after that. He didn’t barge in, he didn’t make himself at home in her heart, he didn’t speak to her, or so much as look at her. It made her feel better, as if being pursued was terrifying and letting someone in was even worse. To hell with all the courtship in the world. She really despised the thought of having to link arms with a man and sign her life over to him. Never.

But what was the difference with Abeni?

Abeni was a woman, for one. She was a friend. One from long ago. One who probably hated her, even though Geneva secretly wished otherwise. She begged silently. Abeni couldn’t hate her. Abeni was filled with only love, the kind of love Geneva could never possess. Abeni was straightforward and kind, honest and pure. Geneva was none of those things.

And so, happy to be alone, Geneva existed, and she hid from the world beneath her shadow of guilt.


	14. Chapter 14

The former _Flying Dutchman_ sat in the morning mist. The green coast of Saint Martin hovered over the water.

The ship was quiet. Nobody could quite speak. Will was gone, and for good. His curse was broken, and so was the crew’s. Now, the _Dutchman_ , no longer a ghost ship, sat there, useless. They were all free men who never expected to be free.

It took some time, but eventually the crew began to disperse. Some of them organized the rowboats and left for the shore. Others talked amongst themselves, seeing who they’d stay with, where they’d go, and what they’d all do. Overlooking it all from the quarterdeck was the quartermaster herself.

Twenty years had passed, and it was apparent on her face. Her once brown hair was graying, all the way down to her breast. Her eyes were tired and lonely. Her face was strong and unyielding. Her stature was hardly frail, and anything but faltering. And yet, beneath her billowing white tunic and faded navy trousers, she was uncertain.

* * *

  
  
The first mate stood amidst the bustling crew. Some were gathering their belongings to leave on the next rowboat. Others were huddled together speaking of all the new ships they could find, or the merchant trade of Saint Martin and the Caribbean Islands. Commerce was at an all time high.

Isaac, the old quartermaster, had invited most of the superiors to come with him ashore, perhaps even to start another crew and sail the seas. Under better colors, he proposed, but they’d certainly be up to no good every once in awhile, just for good fun. The first mate had chuckled along with the rest of the men, but he glanced up at the quarterdeck. Part of him wanted to go with them. He wanted that new adventure that he never thought he’d have. But he didn’t want it without her.

* * *

  
  
“Geneva?”

She glanced over at him fast, startled by his voice. She looked him up and down, and then her gaze returned to the lower decks.

“Mister Scott?”

“What’re your plans now?”

She hesitated. She wished she had some good answer.

“I don’t really know.”

Maccus said nothing for a while. She wished he would break the silence. She hated the silence. It was as empty as she was. She despised that reminder.

“A few of the superiors,” he said. “Isaac, Jim, Palifico, and me was thinkin’ to grab a ship and sail around. Not aimlessly. But enough to make a livin’.” He hesitated for a moment. “Would you come with me?”

She was shocked. After all those years of numbness, silence, and loss, he appeared with this?

She looked at him, confused. She almost couldn’t speak.

“With you?” she asked.

His wrinkled eyes spoke no lie.

“With me.”

She turned away sharply. Her heart raced. What was she doing? Why was she considering this?

“I didn’t want to leave you alone.” His voice was gentle. “I think you would’ve sat here on this ship until it rotted.” It probably wasn’t a lie. “This was your eternity, and now it ain’t.” He hesitated. “At least let me walk you off the ship.”

“I’ll do it myself,” she said. There she was, strong to the bitter end of it. She held her head so stubbornly high.

“And then,” she said softly. She turned and looked at him, his blue eyes, his prickly beard with streaks of gray and white, his thick brow, and behind his gaze, she hoped he had a heart where he held her close.

“I’ll come with you.”

* * *

**THE END**

 


End file.
